by Alan Evans
He lifted his voice so all aboard could hear but it was devoid of expression, the formal laying of a charge. ‘This woman is an Austrian spy. Her trips up to the line were to gather information. She passed it on by wireless from the yacht as she sailed up or down the coast, probably at night, making only short transmissions so they would be impossible to pinpoint.’
The girl was climbing the Jacob’s ladder to the drifter. Balestra started forward to help her but Smith snapped, ‘Leave her!’ Balestra glared at him and everybody else scowled or looked sullen.
Smith went on: ‘She warned them in Trieste we were on our way with Flying-Fish. They were waiting for us, remember?’ She stood on the deck with no man near her but Buckley, her guard. Smith said, ‘And today she sent word to Trieste that we attack it tonight.’
Zacco swore. Pagani snatched off his cap and hurled it to the deck in frustrated rage. Balestra said bitterly, ‘Then the attack is cancelled!’
Smith said, ‘No!’ The girl’s head turned sharply and she stared at him, lips parted. He said ‘I told her we were bound for Trieste. The photographs show Salzburg still at Pola. That’s where we’ll get her.’ He saw the stricken look on the girl’s face and said, ‘Take her below and lock her away!’
He turned his back on her and walked aft, stared unseeingly out over the stern at the cold grey sea. She had sent a letter to the Italian Admiral, confessing, with the sole objective of stopping the attack and thus saving Smith’s life.
But she had warned Trieste also, doing her duty as she saw it. As he did his.
That duty would not let him be. ‘Signore?’ That was Zacco’s voice. Smith turned to face him. ‘We return to Venice, sir?’ It was more a statement than question.
‘No. If we set course for Pola immediately we’ll close it by nightfall. Before then I’ll call all captains aboard for final orders.’
Zacco cleared his throat. ‘Will one boat take the prisoner to Venice and then rejoin?’
Zacco was only tactfully reminding Smith of his duty, but it got him hard looks from the others. Smith realised they must all have guessed that he was the girl’s lover.
And — the prisoner? He had to think of her as such now, but he still could not bear to send her back, alone and so soon, to Venice and to the firing-squad that awaited her there. ‘No.’ Then he gave his excuse: ‘If one of us returns to Venice we may be ordered to cancel the attack, so we stay clear.’
He did not believe it and neither, clearly, did the others. But Zacco said quietly, ‘That is understood.’
The MAS captains returned to their boats, Hercules cast off from Sybil and eased away from the yacht, took the boats in tow to conserve their fuel and turned on to a course for Pola. Smith stood by the wheelhouse. alone and tormented. The yacht was left to drift with the dead men aboard her.
*
Hercules churned sedately across a grey sea patched with fog, under a grey sky, the MAS towed in a bobbling line astern of her like so many ducklings following their mother. Squalls of rain swept in to rattle on the deck, then were gone.
Balestra and Lombardo worked over Seahorse where she lay aft on the deck of Hercules, checking her over thoroughly for one last time, practising unclamping the two big charges. Smith paced die deck forward, his face expressionless. The crew of Hercules left the weather-side clear for him and kept out of his way. Menzies watched him anxiously from the wheelhouse, Buckley from tasks he found for himself about the deck or with Davies on the six-pounder right in the bow.
Once Davies said, ‘He looks like he’s got a lot on his mind.’
Buckley answered shortly, ‘He has. Tonight’s going to be a right bloody caper.’
Davies nodded, ‘Aye. And on top o’ that, there’s the lass.’
Buckley grunted agreement, said bitterly, ‘I still can’t believe it. But I saw the wireless... heard her telling him.’
‘So he’s going through it.’ Davies was silent a moment, then: ‘He should have sent her back. Why didn’t he?’
Buckley answered angrily, worry goading him, ‘I know he should. How the hell do I know why he didn’t?’ He paused, thinking.
Davies said, ‘If she got away somehow, they’d murder him.’
Buckley spun round, startled, ‘Don’t be bloody daft! How could she get away?’ Davies stared at him wooden-faced. Buckley muttered, ‘No. He never would. She’s a spy.’ He swore in frustrated bewilderment. Then, ‘You know summat? I still feel the same about her.’
Davies said drily, ‘If she was a spy for us you’d think she was a heroine. Nobody knows we’ve got her but us.’ He waved a hand at Hercules and the three MAS boats.
‘Somebody would talk.’
‘Who?’
Buckley hesitated, then shook his head decisively, ‘No. He still wouldn’t do it.’
*
Smith called a conference of the three MAS captains, Balestra and Lombardo. The captains came aboard and he met them cheerfully. They all looked relieved. He never mentioned Helen Blair but briefed them on the coming operation with the chart, the aerial photographs of Pola and the notes of his own reconnaissance.
‘As you see, they’ve made a hell of a good job of the defences. At the harbour mouth, between the southern mole and the northern mole is an opening sixty yards wide. That is the way in and out.’ His finger moved down the chart to the centre of the harbour mouth. ‘At the entrance here and just inside, the photographs show two guard-boats and we saw them when we reconnoitred the booms. The one inside the northern mole is an old torpedo-boat. That inside the southern mole is a tug. Barring the entrance is a boom of timbers and chains, and the tug is there to open a section of that boom like a gate to let ships in and out. She tows it aside and then tows it back into position.’ He looked around at them. ‘Clear so far?’
They nodded and Pagani muttered, ‘Too clear.’
Smith went on, ‘The aerial photos show they didn’t stop there. About three hundred yards inside the gate are two further booms, running out from the northern and southern shores and overlapping in the middle. Therefore any vessel entering the harbour has to pass through the gate, steam north to round the first of these booms then south to swing around the second. There are what appear to be two guard-boats inside the northern boom below Cristo Point, and two more at the southern end of the first boom inside the harbour.’
His finger stopped in its tracing. Balestra’s eyes moved intently from chart to photographs. Smith took a breath, said grimly, ‘Now the ships. The aerial photographs are fine as you can see. Full marks to your Air Force. They show six battleships moored or anchored in a line two thousand yards long and stretching from just inside the second boom to the island of San Andrea. And beyond them, anchored off the arsenal, is Salzburg. There’s no mistaking her. She is four thousand yards from the gate at the entrance.’ Voss had moored Salzburg deeper inside the harbour. Some instinct warning him?
There was a moment of silence while they all stared at the photographs. Then Zacco blew out a breath in a whistling sigh. ‘Four kilometres!’
Smith looked at Balestra. This was the man facing the task. Balestra showed only frowning concentration. He said, ‘Well, to start with —’ And he went on to sketch out his plan, simply, boldly.
Smith listened and at the end nodded slow approval, not because he liked the plan but because he could not improve on it. He said, ‘I think a start time of 10 pm, no earlier.’ Balestra nodded agreement. Smith went on, ‘Dawn is at 5.35. And remember you’ll have a stiff current against you.’
Balestra nodded again, gave a small apologetic smile. ‘I am not over-confident. Just determined. I believe we can do it.’
Smith was not over-confident either. Theoretically, at her maximum speed of four knots Seahorse should cover the two miles between the gate and Salzburg inside an hour. But not only would the current be against her, but she must also somehow work around an intricate succession of obstructions, with Balestra navigating in darkness, aided only by a small compass. There
were the guard-boats and God only knew what else they might encounter. Smith said to all of them, ‘I would have liked to have spent more time on trials. That isn’t possible. I’m convinced that now Salzburg has moved to Pola the entire Austrian Fleet will soon move to Cattaro to mount operations from there. And once Salzburg is inside that harbour our mission becomes impossible.’
They muttered agreement; the land-locked harbour of Cattaro would be an impregnable base for Salzburg.
Smith went on, ‘Our orders are to seek out and destroy her. We have to do it now, while we can.’ He stretched and relaxed, grinned at Balestra and Lombardo. ‘I’ve got some details to discuss with the captains but they don’t concern your plan. I suggest you get what sleep you can.’
So Balestra and Lombardo went away, the thin lieutenant talking eagerly, the chunky motorista scowling uncooperatively.
Smith looked at the captains. ‘You have the explosive charges and men instructed in their use?’
Zacco answered, ‘Yes, sir. The torpedomen.’ Then: ‘You don’t think Balestra can do it?’
‘He has surprise on his side: But that’s all. Nobody has done anything like this before or even dreamed of it. You know what he’s up against. What odds do you give him?’ They exchanged glances. Smith said, ‘I give him one chance in a thousand. But because Balestra himself believes he can do it, I’m sending him. Questions?’
Zacco looked as if he was glad the responsibility was Smith’s and not his. He checked with the others. ‘No questions.’
‘Very well, gentlemen.’ Smith turned again to the chart and the aerial photographs and they got down to detailed planning.
Night was falling as the captains returned to their boats. Zacco was last to go down the ladder and Smith said, ‘When you collected the photographs from Headquarters, what was the news of the war?’ At that time his thoughts had been full of Helen Blair: he must not think of her now.
Zacco paused at the head of the ladder. ‘The line on the Piave holds and there is hope at Headquarters, but most of the talk was about a German Lieutenant involved in the Austrian attack on the heights of Caporetto. The prisoners taken recently, some of them talked of him. They said on the first day of Caporetto he took prisoner a whole regiment with only a dozen men. Later he captured the height of the Matajur with just one company of mountain troops and when the town of Longarone fell he led the first German troops into it. They say his name is Erwin Rommel.’
Smith shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’ He shrugged. ‘But it is good that the line holds.’ He watched Zacco’s MAS slip into station astern in the dusk. The line had to hold. And his boats had to get Salzburg.
17. The Gatecrashers
Smith stood in the wheelhouse of Hercules, staring out at the night, Menzies on one side of him, Balestra on the other. Guido Balestra wore his one-piece waterproof suit, closed tightly at wrists and ankles, rope-soled shoes on his feet. The suit had an air pouch on chest and back to give extra buoyancy. A line was wound around his waist and his belt held a knife. Fred Archbold had the watch and Ginger Gates was at the wheel.
Smith stepped over to the port side of the wheelhouse to stand by the look-out. From there he could see aft, and the three MAS boats in line astern of Hercules.
The look-out reported quietly, ‘Land off the port bow, sir, ‘bout a mile or more.’
Smith set the glasses to his eyes. Balestra said, ‘Brioni Islands?’
Smith lowered the glasses, nodded. ‘Time?’
Menzies said, ‘Nine-fifty, sir.’
They were on time. Smith ordered, ‘Stop her.’
Balestra left the wheelhouse and Smith turned on Archbold. ‘She’s all yours, Fred. You know your orders?’
They were virtually the same as those given him off Trieste and Archbold repeated them around his cold pipe: ‘Patrol off the islands. Keep a sharp look-out and steer clear from trouble — run if we have to and come back if we can. If there’s no sign of you by first light we return to Venice.’
‘And no lights. That includes your pipe, Fred.’
‘Aye, Skipper.’ Then as Smith turned to leave Archbold added, ‘Best o’ luck; sir.’
‘Thank you. The same to you.’ Smith grinned at him and at Menzies, being left aboard the drifter because Smith would not take any unnecessary man in the boats on this operation. ‘Cheer up, Mid! Mr. Archbold’ll see you don’t get bored.’
Menzies raised a smile. ‘Bet he will, sir. Good luck.’
Smith left the wheelhouse and walked aft. Seahorse lay there on the deck and now Balestra was with Lombardo, supervising the work of a party hoisting the craft out. They used the drifter’s derrick but not the steam winch because they dared not let its clamour betray them. Seahorse was hoisted out by manpower, lowered gently down to the sea. Zacco’s boat was already alongside Hercules where she lay stopped while the other boats lay off. Balestra and Lombardo went down-into Zacco’s boat, cast off the strops from Seahorse and attached the towing-line from the MAS. Buckley went down and Smith followed him. He glanced just once towards Hercules’ forward companion leading to the cabin where Helen Blair was held prisoner, then he stepped down into the crowded cockpit.
Besides Zacco at the wheel there were now Balestra, Lombardo, Buckley and Smith in the cockpit. They shuffled a moment or two, sorting themselves out, finding room. Then the electric motors hummed and the boat stole away from the drifter, the other two falling into line astern. Smith saw beyond them Hercules getting under way, heard faintly the soft thump-thump! of her engines. Archbold had a nerve-racking night ahead of him. His orders were simple but not easy. ‘Steer clear of trouble... run away.’ Any patrolling Austrian boat that saw her would out-pace and out-gun her. Smith knew that and so did Archbold.
Smith faced forward. The boat pitched and rolled gently, the motors hummed. Seahorse slipped along obediently at the end of the tow, the long, slender length of her awash, like a following shark. Smith hoped no one else would make a comparison. It was an old superstition that a following shark meant a death soon. Mere superstition but they could do without that kind of ill omen.
Zacco said, ‘We’re on station.’
Smith answered, ‘Very good.’
The motors stopped and the other two boats crept up to lie one on either beam, only yards away. Smith could see the lift of the land and a faint, thin sprinkling of lights. They were little more than half a mile from the entrance to the harbour of Pola.
Lombardo was dressed like Balestra in a one-piece waterproof suit. The air pouches on chest and back made huge his stocky, barrel-chested figure. He bent over to haul Seahorse alongside and Buckley went down on his knees in the cockpit and leant over the side to hold her there.
Smith thought that war was often dignified by calling it a science. It wasn’t. It was a haphazard, bloody business when only too often men were forced into taking huge risks for the sake of some imperfectly-perceived advantage. He shook Lombardo’s hand, then Balestra’s. Lombardo lowered himself over the side into the sea and took hold of Seahorse forward. Guido Balestra’s thin face was smiling, his eyes bright. He said softly, ‘Do I get a last request?’
Smith said awkwardly, ‘Don’t be damn silly.’
Balestra was deadly serious, despite the smile. ‘I’ll succeed or die.’
Smith saw he meant it and asked, ‘What do you want?’
‘The Contessa. Ask for her word that she will keep silent, and neutral, for the rest of the war. Then give her a boat.’ Balestra wanted nothing for himself. Smith stared at him, then shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’
Balestra sighed. ‘That’s what I thought. May God help you, sir.’
He slipped over the side into the sea and took hold of Seahorse at her after end where the engine controls were positioned. He started the engine. It throbbed faintly, the screw turned and Seahorse moved away into the night, only her black back and the heads of the men showing. There was left just the thin line of phosphorescence of her wake, then that too was gone
.
Zacco said quietly, ‘Now we wait.’
*
Balestra trailed his body in the water, his right arm resting on the back of Seahorse. He could feel as well as hear the slow throb of the compressed air engine and the steady beat of the screw. Lombardo’s head showed as a black football forward and on the other side of the narrow, fifteen-foot length of Seahorse. Rain was falling now, a slow pattering of drops to begin with and then a downpour that struck hissing into the sea around them. The sea was bitterly cold, and their eyes were so close to its surface they could see nothing ahead of them, only the wrinkling of the waves and darkness. So they plugged on and Balestra began to wonder if Zacco’s navigation had been at fault and he had dropped them too far from the harbour mouth.
Then he heard Lombardo calling softly, ‘Something right ahead! Rocks or a boom!’ A moment, then: ‘A boom!’
Balestra stopped the engine. Seahorse slid on a few feet, slowing, then bumped gently, stopped. Balestra could see the obstruction now and paddled forward along the length of Seahorse until he was at the round nose of her and opposite Lombardo. The boom was made of huge metal cylinders, each ten feet long and linked by thick steel hawsers. That he had expected. But which boom was this the one outside the southern mole or that spanning the gap between the northern mole and Cristo Point? He had to find out: they had to know where they were starting from or they would blunder about in the darkness all night. He took a chance. ‘We’ll go north.’
They edged northwards along the boom, not using the engine because a guard-boat might be only yards away from them, the watch standing ready at a searchlight. So they moved slowly, eyes blinking against the wash of rain, striving to pierce the darkness. A light showed behind them. Balestra turned his head and saw a searchlight’s beam sweeping the sea. It was on Cape Compare and far to the south.
