by Alan Evans
Smith had also counted and croaked at Zacco, ‘Right! All aboard!’
The engine note became a bellow as the MAS swung away from the boom and headed out to sea. Shells burst on the boom and in the sea from which Zacco had plucked them. They lay shuddering in the well, frozen by shock and the cold sea, a huddled pile of dispirited men in the bottom of the boat. The lights and the gunfire fell away astern and there was only the bellow of the engine and the rip of the air as they tore away from Trieste. There was no pursuit. Doubtless the Austrians saw no profit in a hunt in the dark when more MAS might be lying in ambush.
In the light of a torch Smith and Balestra examined Enzo while seawater swilled under and across the gratings. They found two wounds in his back they thought were only from splinters but they could do nothing but dress them, then wrap him in blankets. Their teeth chattered with the cold, so they wrapped more blankets around themselves and huddled down, close to Enzo. They were bought a thermos filled with hot coffee laced thickly with grappa. Packed together as they were, and with the coffee and grappa coiling in their bellies, some warmth returned.
Smith saw the signal-lamp flash in the bow of the MAS and a moment later an answering blink came from starboard. Zacco swung their bow towards it and another MAS lifted out of the darkness. As Zacco reduced speed and slipped past her stern they saw Gallina’s face turned towards them. The MAS rumbled on at around ten knots and now Hercules showed, the little drifter seeming to stand high out of the sea from their low-lying vantage point.
Fred Archbold was at the side with a party waiting to take the survivors aboard. They clambered up or were lifted to the drifter’s deck. Enzo was carried below and tucked into the engineer Geordie Hogg’s bunk. The cook came to look at him and gave Enzo the benefit of his meagre medical knowledge while the rest went to the crew’s quarters forward. Fred Archbold said Balestra could use his bunk: ‘Looks as if you need it, sir.’
Balestra, silent and bitter, leaned in the doorway of Smith’s cabin while the latter pulled on dry clothes. Smith said, trying to cheer him, ‘It was bad luck them spotting us on a night like this. That’s all. Just bad luck.’
Balestra said fiercely, ‘It worked! Didn’t it? Flying-Fish worked!’
Smith nodded. ‘Like a charm.’
‘We were so close!’ Balestra’s clenched fist pounded softly on the edge of the door.
Only minutes away. And now?
Smith asked, ‘How long will it take to build another Flying-Fish?’
Balestra said morosely, ‘A month at least. But there is no point. Now the Austrians know about her they will stop her. Maybe they will mount spikes on the booms.’
That was true. Smith buttoned his jacket and reached for the bridge-coat hanging by the door. ‘What about that torpedo? What was the idea behind that? How is it supposed to work?’
Balestra told him, his eyes coming alive again. If anything, this new idea sounded even madder than. Flying-Fish. But Flying-Fish had worked, would have. been a triumphant success, if granted another five minutes, and now Smith had no other way of striking at Salzburg, of carrying out his orders, save with the help of Balestra’s second brainchild.
He jammed his cap on his head, stepped to the door then paused to say wryly, ‘I’m certain we’ve got Voss to thank for the strengthened booms and the Austrians being so quick to react.’
Balestra scowled. ‘They won this time.’
Smith thought, again. Aloud he said, ‘Get some sleep. As soon as we return to Venice you start work on that torpedo idea. How long will it take?’
Balestra shifted uneasily, not wanting. to be pinned down. ‘I don’t know. I only think I have solved the problems. Maybe a month — maybe never. And now I am without Enzo.’ He paused a moment, lost in gloomy thought, then: ‘I do not think I can ask for another engineer to ta4 his place.’
Smith saw his point. Flying-Fish had gone to sea, and the whole desperate assault on Trieste mounted, without authority or orders. There was a storm waiting in Venice to burst around Smith’s head and Balestra would get nothing from the dockyard now. He said, ‘I want it tomorrow.’
Balestra’s head jerked up. ‘Tomorrow!’
Smith grinned. ‘I know. Impossible. But we can’t waste an hour, remember that. We’re not finished with Voss and Salzburg, not by a long way.’
He mounted the companion and walked aft, climbed the ladder to the wheelhouse of the drifter to resume command of her. Menzies could have the cabin to snatch a few hours’ sleep. He thought uneasily that Voss and Salzburg had not finished with them. But his orders remained: Seek out and destroy.
9. ‘I need guns!’
Menzies had the watch when they raised Venice but Smith slept in the wheelhouse in the old easy chair from his cabin. Menzies called him and Buckley came with a cup of coffee. Smith stood up and stretched stiffly then leaned at the back of the wheelhouse, sipping the coffee. He let Menzies con the drifter in as the three MAS boats curved away across the lagoon to their berth by the Church of the Redentore on the Island of the Guidecca. The city lifted ghostly out of the mist lying on the lagoon and the marshes beyond. There was a damp chill to the air and Smith was weary. Davies the gunner was at the wheel, obeying Menzies’ helm orders but, Smith suspected, perfectly ready to disobey them if the boy made a mistake.
Menzies did not. They were signalled to a berth against the Riva degli Schiavoni and Menzies slid the drifter neatly in bows-on to the quay. Men waiting there caught the lines thrown and secured her. There was no welcoming crowd, of course, Hercules returning as quietly as she had gone, but there was a scattering of people on the quay, gazing incuriously at the drifter.
Helen Blair stood among them on the quay, her eyes searching the deck of Hercules. Smith saw her speak to Buckley who saluted and grinned at her, pointed up at the wheelhouse. Helen Blair’s face turned towards Smith and he thought he saw relief there. She smiled, but only for a moment, then lifted a hand to wave.
He climbed down to the deck and crossed the brow to the quay. ‘Good morning.’ He thought she looked pale and tired, as if she had not slept.
She glanced around at the mist and the cold grey surface of the lagoon. ‘Not very.’ She turned her gaze on him, shyly. ‘You look tired. Was it bad?’
Smith shrugged. ‘It could have been worse. We only had one man wounded though that was one too many.’ He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw and said wearily, ‘I won’t go into details but it went wrong.’
The girl looked away, then said, ‘I was watching and I saw your ship come in. I came down to see —’ She stopped, hesitated a moment then went on quickly, ‘I think you are crowded aboard.’
Smith said drily, ‘That’s an understatement. Menzies, that’s the midshipman up in the wheelhouse there, only has a bunk when I’m not aboard.’
Helen Blair nodded. ‘Then why don’t you stay in my house while the ship is lying here? It’s just along the quay.’
The invitation was casual, take-it-or-leave-it. Smith hesitated but only for a moment. There was no need for him to sleep aboard. The depressing fact was there was nothing for him to do until he thought of a way to get at Salzburg. He said, ‘Thank you. I have some duties to attend to first but meanwhile I’ll send my kit along, if that’s all right?’
Helen Blair said hurriedly, ‘Of course. I have to go to the mainland so I may not see you until tomorrow but my housekeeper will look after you. Just send your servant along with your baggage.’
‘I haven’t got a servant. Buckley will bring it.’
Smith pointed him out and Helen Blair nodded. ‘Very well. Goodbye, Commander.’ She seemed anxious to get away now.
‘Good morning, Miss Blair.’ Smith saluted and the girl walked back to her house.
Smith returned to Hercules and told Buckley to collect his kit and take it to the house. A launch came alongside then to take Enzo to the hospital, and Smith and Balestra shook his hand and saw him off. The engineer was grey with pain, weak and ill, still in shock, but
the young doctor who came with the launch examined him quickly before moving him and said there was no cause for worry. ‘A few weeks’ rest and he will be over it.’
Balestra left for his workshop then, rowed away in Hercules’ dinghy by two of her crew. Smith went down to the cabin and wrote his report. It did not take long. He said that he had taken Flying-Fish in pursuance of his orders but on his own responsibility. That cleared Balestra. He went on to describe the assault on the defences of Trieste, stressed Balestra’s courage and determination in pressing home the attack until his craft was trapped and immobile on the boom, stressed also that Flying-Fish had worked and only their premature discovery by the searchlights prevented success. He read it through, aware that in the hands of Pickett and Devereux it might end as evidence at his own court-martial. As soon, that is, as Devereux returned from Brindisi. The Italians were another matter. He could expect to be summoned by them at any time.
He was still convinced he had acted correctly and he signed the report, tucked it in an envelope and addressed it to Devereux. Out on deck he found Menzies and handed the report to him. ‘See that goes to Captain Devereux’s office and that you get a receipt for it.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘The cabin is all yours for the time being. I’ll be sleeping ashore.’ Smith told him where.
Menzies ventured, ‘Good idea, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Smith grunted. He went around the ship With Menzies and found there was nothing for him to do. Fred Archbold and Davies the gunner made it plain the men would be well looked after, and now Buckley returned. ‘I hung up your uniform an’ put the rest o’ your kit away in your room, sir. You should be all right there.’
Smith glanced at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
Buckley returned his gaze with blank innocence. ‘Nice comfortable room, sir. Very pleasant young lady an’ I’ll swear by the food. She gave me a meal while I was there.’ The housekeeper had served it but Helen Blair had been in the kitchen — and asked some casual questions about Smith which Buckley had answered politely, grinning to himself the while.
Smith eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but did not press him.
He walked along the quay to the house and was admitted by the old woman, the housekeeper. Helen Blair had gone to the mainland but had left a note saying he could use the white launch which lay at the steps outside the house.
It was a polite, formal note, signed with the initials H.B. The housekeeper was grey-haired, smiling but worried. She had few words of English but only said something about the war, and was obviously distressed by it. Smith found a hot bath was available so he shaved and soaked, dozed off in the heat, woke and dressed. The old woman called him to a meal set on a table on the first floor looking over the lagoon and he almost fell asleep again while he ate. So when he had done he dragged himself upstairs to his bed. In the few hazy seconds before sleep struck him down he thought that Voss had won again and it was incredibly bad luck for Flying-Fish to have been spotted on such a night.
He must see Balestra.
He wished Helen Blair had not gone away...
*
He woke in the late afternoon, the room in shadow. He heard a dull rumble that might have been distant thunder but he recognised it as gunfire. The Germans and Austrians had continued their advance. How close must they now be to Venice if their gunfire could be heard?
He went down and talked with the housekeeper, then out to the launch and so to Balestra’s workshop on San Elena. He found the lights burning in his little box of an office and the engineer stooped over his drawing-board. He glanced up vaguely as Smith entered then bent again to his work. Smith set down the basket of food he had obtained from Helen Blair’s housekeeper and asked, ‘Have you slept?’
Balestra did not look up. ‘I will sleep tonight.’
‘Eaten?’
‘I had breakfast.’
Breakfast aboard Hercules would have been a bacon sandwich at most, eaten at the crack of dawn. Smith said, ‘You eat now. Here.’ He shoved the basket in front of Balestra. ‘There’s — oh! Lasagne and a lot of other stuff. Plus a bottle of wine.’ Balestra smiled and gave in. While he ate Smith looked at the drawing-board and he was again impressed by the quality of the drawing. He asked questions and Balestra answered. Finally ‘What are you going to call it?’
Balestra shrugged and sipped at his wine. ‘I don’t know. I build it, you give it a name.’
Smith grinned. ‘I wouldn’t fancy it the other way around.’ He thought a moment, then: ‘What about Seahorse?’
‘All right. ‘Balestra stood up, ready to go back to work. Smith said, ‘I suppose I’d be wasting my time ordering you to sleep.’
Balestra smiled. ‘I will sleep. I am almost done.’
‘Is there anything you want?’
Balestra nodded. ‘I told you I need a good engineer, a man of his hands but with a head. And I can’t go to the doskyward to get one.’
‘Has anything been said about last night?’
‘No.’ Balestra shrugged. ‘I do not think they know at Headquarters that Flying-Fish has gone. I told my workmen to keep silent. But they will learn some time because Enzo was wounded and the circumstances have been reported to the surgeon. But I do not go to the dockyard too soon.’
Smith agreed. Devereux was still in Brindisi. No doubt when he returned and read Smith’s report he would immediately inform the Italians of the loss of Flying-Fish but meanwhile — let sleeping dogs lie. He said, ‘So what about this engineer?’
Balestra said, ‘There is the motorista, Lombardo. When we disguised Flying-Fish he was very clear, very quick. They say he is a good swimmer. If he is as good an engineer—’
He stopped and looked enquiringly at Smith who answered, ‘Zacco says he’s first-class. I’ll get him for you tomorrow.’
‘Good.’ That settled, Balestra turned back to his drawing-board.
Smith shook his head, retrieved the basket and left him to it. Night had fallen and he steered the little white launch across the dark waters of the lagoon. Back at the house on the Ca’di Dio he found Helen Blair just rising from the table, her meal completed. He was glad to see her and asked quickly, wanting to talk, ‘Successful trip?’
‘Yes.’ She did not seem happy about it though, looked pale in the light of the lamp.
He asked, ‘Where did you go?’
‘Up beyond Zenson. They are digging trenches on this side of the river and talking of holding a line along the Piave.’ Then she went on hurriedly, ‘Please, if you will excuse me, I am tired. Good night, Commander.’
‘Good night, Miss Blair.’
There was tension between them. He watched her climb the stairs but she did not look back. He returned to the table and the old woman served his meal. Afterwards when she had cleared the table and he sat over his coffee she came to the door dressed for the street. She said something and gestured and he understood she would see him in the morning. He said, ‘Good night,’ and moments later heard the front door close behind her.
He had not expected that, had assumed the old woman would be sleeping in the house. Now he was alone with the girl.
He finished his coffee and went to his room which was next to hers, lay in bed and stared up into the darkness. Helen Blair’s talk of a line on the Piave river worried him. When he heard the gunfire he had wondered how close the enemy was. Now he knew. There had been attempts to make a stand on the Tagliamento, then the Livenza, now it was the Piave. Each river was deeper inside Italy. The Piave ran barely twenty miles from this house.
He was no nearer carrying out his orders than the day he had stepped ashore in Venice. In fact he was further away because Flying-Fish and the chance it offered were gone. Now he had to wait for Balestra to make Seahorse work but even if he succeeded it would still be a bigger gamble than Flying-Fish had been.
If Devereux and Pickett let him try.
If he did not face a court-martial.
The water of the lagoon lapped against the stone at the foot of the house and the wind brought down to him the sound of the guns in the north.
He was always conscious of the girl in the next room.
It was a long time before he slept.
Then he slept badly and woke early, shaved and dressed, went quietly down through the silent house and out to the launch. He steered the little craft across the lagoon and through the mist he had come to expect. On the Guidecca he found the three MAS boats nestling among a dozen other craft a alongside the quay near the Church of Redentore and a sentry on the quay directed him to the quarters of the crews. The building was just along the quay and he met the three captains as they came out on to the steps. They seemed pleased to see him and he shook hands all round. Pietro Zacco grinned and said, ‘Welcome to our prison.’
They explained the joke. Over the door was a sign that had read, ‘Casa di Pena per Maschi’, or: ‘Prison for males’. When the Royal Italian Navy took it over as quarters for the crews of the MAS boats some wag had covered over the chi so now the sign read: ‘Casa di Pena per Mas’ — ‘Prison for MAS’.
The crews were streaming out of the prison now and heading down to the boats. Zacco said, ‘We are needed for patrols for two, maybe three days. Some boats have been damaged and gone back to the yard for repairs. We are needed till they return.’
Smith nodded. ‘I have to wait for Balestra. But I want to talk to you and your engineer, Lombardo.’
