by Alan Evans
He stood with his hands on his knees and caught his breath. Hercules was under way and turning. The wreck of the MAS wallowed in the drifter’s wake, was left further astern and sank deeper with every second, the sea washing over her. Pola was better than a mile away now and lost in the thin mist. There was no sign of pursuit. The guns were still lobbing shells after them but they were whistling high overhead to fall far off the bow. Those guns’ crews could not see the drifter, and were firing at random along the line of the last bearing. It was a million to one against them dropping a shell anywhere near Hercules.
Smith looked instinctively to Zacco because the sinking MAS was his boat, and saw the big man watching her, grey-faced with the pain of his wound. Smith said, ‘Sorry, Pietro.’
Zacco grimaced, then said, ‘We got what we came for.’
Balestra nodded. He had pushed back his rubber cap and the curls were plastered damply to his brow. His face was still blue with cold. Throughout the ship there was an easing of taut nerves. The crew of the six-pounder secured the gun, unable to bear astern as Hercules steamed out to sea. One of them laughed, Davies grinned. They had done it.
Smith looked away, saw Menzies’ face, pale but excited and smiling, as he appeared up the forward companion. He handed Helen Blair out onto the deck, then turned away to the wheelhouse. Smith walked towards her where she stood alone. She was smiling. He remembered Balestra’s pleading for her life and knew what he must do.
The flash seemed to leap from the companion. He felt himself lifted and thrown backward as the deck in front of him burst upwards and smoke rolled with it. He struck the deck with one shoulder, a jarring shock and then pain all down that side. He was conscious of thinking: million to one chance or not, they had been hit. He saw men running jerkily through a fog of smoke, dragging on the hoses, the water jetting. Buckley knelt over him, relief on his face.
He tried to get up but his left leg and arm would not obey him. Buckley protested, ‘Just lie still a minute, sir, till we see.’
‘Help me up! Help me up! damn you!’
Buckley shook his head in exasperation but obeyed, set Smith on his feet and steadied him there. Life was returning to the left arm and leg. They throbbed painfully, but the leg supported him and he could move the arm: the world rocked around him and it was not through the motion of the ship though Hercules still steamed full ahead. He could not see forward because Zacco stood before him with Balestra at one shoulder and Davies at the other, like a wall.
Smith asked automatically, ‘Damage?’
Davies answered, ‘Cabin flat’s a mess, sir, but it’s no worse than that. Fire’s out.’
Smith could see that much, glimpsed over their shoulders the charred timbers of the deck, the smoke blown away and only wisps of it shredding now. He knew the other question he wanted to ask, but he also knew the answer.
Davies was not meeting his eye.
Zacco said, ‘Signore, you should rest. That was an unlikely hit. We’re clear away.’
Davies added, ‘That’s right, sir. Why don’t you shift aft and have a sit down outa the smoke.’
‘Good idea, sir.’ That was Buckley, his hand on Smith’s arm and trying to turn him. ‘I’ll get you a cup o’ coffee in two shakes.’
Smith resisted the pressure of that hand. Only Balestra met Smith’s eyes and only Balestra had not spoken. Smith asked him, ‘The Contessa?’ Balestra did not answer but the misery in his face was enough. Smith said harshly, ‘Get out of my way!’
That was an order and they fell back reluctantly. He walked between Zacco and Balestra towards where Helen Blair laid on the deck, the cook on his knees by her side, his first aid satchel open. Smith knelt across from him on the girl’s right side. To his surprise she was not dead. Her eyes were wide open, watching him, her face very pale. The deck on which she lay was soaked dark by the water they had used on the fire, her hair had come down and was spread around her head.
Smith looked at the cook, his fat face haggard now, and asked him, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Splinters, sir.’ The cook’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. ‘Her back’s wide open. I had a look but I can’t do nothing no more ‘n a doctor nor a hospital could. Can’t move her, neither.’ A downward look. ‘Ere! She’s choking!’
He moved to lift the girl’s head but Smith was before him, sliding his hand under her neck and raising her, her head on his arm. The choking passed. Her eyes were on his and he said, ‘I was going to set you ashore.’
She smiled at him. Her lips moved, but no sound came.
He went on talking to her. He would not remember afterwards anything of what he had said, but he believed it had helped. The cook went away: there was nothing he could do. The life was running out of her, Smith could feel it in the loosening weight on his arm.
When it was over he gave the necessary orders and walked aft to the wheelhouse. He told Menzies and Archbold, ‘You did very well. I’ll make that clear in my report.’
Fred Archbold did not answer. Menzies said, ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
Smith wondered what was wrong with the boy: he looked ready to weep. Smith told him, ‘Go and get something to eat. And put your cap on straight.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’
He stood in the wheelhouse and looked out at the broadening horizon. For once the mist was lifting, sucked up by the sun. It was going to be a beautiful day.
*
Venice was in sight, the low littoral of sand and marsh a smudged line on the horizon, when the destroyer ranged alongside. She flew an Admiral’s flag and that flag was Braddock’s. He came aboard and Smith met him at the side, took him to the wheelhouse and briefly made his report.
Braddock, broad and black-bearded, growled bad-temperedly, Devereux is on his way home and Pickett will follow him soon. There’s nothing worse than men with a misguided sense of duty, who follow it to the bitter end. Even after I confirmed your orders — do you realise the Italians believed Devereux sanctioned the attack on Trieste by Flying-Fish and so had no complaint? Can you credit that they were ready to keep their word to Winter and give you anything you wanted for this attack?’
Smith shook his head and Braddock went on, ‘Well, they were. Destroyers, more MAS, whatever they had... but Devereux actually told them it was considered that a small force had a better chance of success. He told me straight that he saw no sense in risking more ships and men on a hopeless gamble.’
If Braddock expected anger he was disappointed. Smith shrugged. ‘Maybe he was right. We were lucky.’
Braddock grunted, puzzled, then: ‘You carried out your orders to the letter. With Salzburg sunk the Austrians will hang all the blame on Erwin Voss and send him home. Without him they’ll play the waiting game as before. That may tie-up the Italian Fleet, some of our ships and the French, but it’s better than having the Austrians raising hell in the Adriatic. You’ve done very well.’
From Braddock that was praise indeed. Smith only said flatly, ‘Thank you, sir.’ He lapsed into silence.
There was a cold wind out of the north-west from the mountains where the guns still thundered and men died in holes in the ground. He wondered briefly, about the other Erwin — Rommel, the young ‘Lieutenant’. Perhaps by now he too was one of the dead...
They were entering the lagoon. The crew of the guard-boat cheered them and a gun fired a salute as Venice opened before them, the campanile of San Marco standing tall in the sunlight. He could see San Elena where he had met the three MAS captains. Of those only Zacco lived.
Braddock, baffled at Smith’s sombreness, said with gruff cheer, ‘Their Lordships of the Admiralty will be pleased.’
They were passing the destroyers moored off the canal that led to the Arsenal and dockyard and they were dressed overall, the bunting streaming on the wind. Beyond them was the quay that was the Riva Ca’di Dio and at the end of it a narrow little house that seemed to stand right in the sunlit water that lapped below its empty windows.
Epi
logue
In December 1917 Leutnant Erwin Rommel was awarded the highest honour of the Pour le Merite for his actions in the battle of Caporetto.
At the beginning of this book I said all the other characters are fictitious. They are not based, in any way, on the gallant officers and men who actually carried out feats very similar to those described. I say similar because in my fictional accounts I have felt obliged to tone down the action: a bald recital of what these men actually did would strain the credulity of the reader.
Lieutenant Pellegrini in Grillo (the jumping-boat on which Flying-Fish is based) attacked the boom defences of Pola and surmounted no less than three before shell-fire wrecked the boat on the fourth and last boom.
Lieutenants Rossetti and Paolucci with Mignatta (on which I based Seahorse) penetrated the harbour defences of Pola and sank the dreadnought battleship Viribus Unitis.
Lieutenant Rossi in MAS 9 cut through the boom defences of Trieste and once inside torpedoed and sank the old battleship Wien. At a later date, in MAS 15 off Premuda, he found the Austrian Fleet on passage from Pola to Cattaro. In a dawn attack he torpedoed and sank the dreadnought battleship Svent Istvan, upon which the Austrian Fleet — probably suspecting a trap by larger forces — made off and returned to Pola.
If you enjoyed Seek Out and Destroy you might be interested in Thunder at Dawn by Alan Evans also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Thunder at Dawn by Alan Evans
I
Black as the hob of hell.
First of June 1916.
Off Jutland.
A wheeling darkness cut by the white wings of Sabre's bow-wave. The Coxswain seemed to float like a wraith on the little open bridge as he shouted wide-mouthed at Smith. "Black as the hobo' hell, sir! But there's summat out there!"
Smith grinned at him, cool. Cold. They were not good enough at this night-fighting and a destroyer was a fragile craft. They'd had a taste of it an hour before, been hit and hurt and fired all their torpedoes. They raced on through the night, trailing the pin-point of red that marked Swordsman ahead, and ahead of her was the flotilla leader, Sentinel. While outside in the darkness...
Young Gillies, the Sub, yelled, "Ship! Red four-five! Challenge, sir?"
Smith heard himself answer, "No!" He saw the looming black bulk of two big cruisers and just from that glimpse he knew them. But Sentinel challenged, signal-lamp blinking, only to be washed in the converging cones of searchlight beams and smashed as the cruisers' guns opened up. The little ships, Swordsman and Sentintél, exploded in flame.
Sabre could try to run, or she could draw the fire.
Smith heard his voice crack as he yelled at the gun's crew forward. "Fire at the lights!" The quickfirer broke into its barking. It was the only weapon they had. "Hard aport!" Sabre swerved and plunged at the cruisers and the lights burst on him, blinding him, revealing all of them on the little bridge as in the light of day, their sole protection the canvas dodger that barely kept off the spray. They were under fire from both cruisers so that Sabre ran through a forest of water-spouts like towering, white-topped trees.
The near-misses hurled the sea inboard, the hit aft heeled Sabre over. The blast from another threw Smith to the deck and the gun had gone, leaving a crater that belched flame. Sabre rolled under him and Gillies fell on him, his serious young face blank and eyes wide.
The lights snuffed out, Sabre capsized and Smith fell into the reaching dark, the sea wrapping cold around him.
*
He woke, sweat cold on his skin, threshing in the big bed. The woman, still sleeping, mumbled and reached out for him but he slid away from the hand, out of the bed. He stumbled, groping, across the dark room to the window, twitched back one curtain and stared out at the day. It was barely light, a winter’s dawn come grey under the hanging pall of London’s smoke. The street lay quiet between the high, handsome faces of the houses of the wealthy. Only one old man shuffled along, shoving a barrow, collecting the piles of horse manure with brush and shovel.
Smith, shivered, standing naked at the window, the body seeming frail, ribs standing out under the taut-stretched skin, scarred. The dream came only rarely now but still real as the real nightmare had been. He wondered if he would ever be quit of it. He stared out at the street. It was a strange place and he was still a stranger here. He turned from the window, restless, found his clothes and dressed quickly. He spared one glance for the bed, the room in half-light now from the crack he had left in the curtains. The woman sprawled, full body loose, breasts spilling from the silk of the nightgown, the lips slack in exhausted sleep.
Last night, last week, last –
It was time he was gone.
He moved quietly down through the house, silent but for the slow-ticking clock in the hall and let himself out into the morning.
He must see the doctors again, and surely they would pass him fit this time.
He walked quickly, a middle-sized, slight figure in the dark blue of the Royal Navy with the three gold rings of a Commander. A very young man for that rank. A thin face, sharp-featured under the cap, with pale blue eyes. Not handsome. He walked quickly and it was not because of the cold. There was an urgency about him.
Time he was gone.
*
Later that day they talked of him at the Admiralty. It was close to noon but London was still shrouded in that dirty, grey light. In the Admiralty the lights burned yellow and a fire crackled in the grate.
The Captain read from the folder: "David Cochrane Smith." He paused, then: "Unusual background." He looked across at the Admiral curiously.
Who answered shortly, "A village boy from a village shop. For an officer it's extraordinary." He stared coldly at the Captain. "Take the advice that was given to me: Mind your own business."
The Captain flinched, swallowed then returned to the folder. "The doctors think he went back to sea too soon after that sinking at Jutland. Then to be carted ashore again with a wound—" He shook his head. "They say they will pass him fit but he must not return to the Grand Fleet; it's too early for active duty of that kind."
The Admiral snapped irritably, "Active duty? That's the trouble. He's been too damned active."
"And she'd follow him to Scapa Flow."
"She'd find it damned uncomfortable."
"She's a very wealthy woman. She could make it comfortable."
"I doubt it. But she could make a nuisance of herself. Blast the woman! She's like a bitch in heat!"
"Yes." The Captain thought the simile apt. "But she's an extraordinarily attractive woman to be panting over him. I wonder what she sees in him? And she's not the first."
The Admiral muttered under his breath, glaring into the fire.
"Sir?"
"I said," the Admiral repeated distinctly, "what a bloody mess. On top of the woman there's this rumour. He has to open his mouth at one of her parties and who does he open it to? A gas-bag! Who tells his tale all around town. 'Enough men killed. The Navy ought to stay at home.' Good God!" The near-bellow rumbled away and after a moment he went on, 'They've labelled him as a defeatist. The story has even gone around the Fleet. Did you know that? I got a signal from Scapa asking me if it was true! We can't send him back even if the doctors would allow it, not with that label around his neck. And there'd be questions in the House if we tried it. But I want him out of this, well clear of her and the newspapers. I don't want him away for ever; just long enough for - this to blow over, for the truth to be told and accepted; and quick enough to avoid another scandal with her. He's a good officer."
"He has a wild reputation."
"That's not the same as being wild. He's a man who seizes action when the opportunity offers and he's had plenty of offers. He's a good officer."
"But not indispensable?"
"No one is indispensable." He added with grim sincerity, thank God."
There was silence in the room while they mentally reviewed alternatives. The Admiral broke it. "I have it. A ship that returns to
home waters in the summer at the end of her commission, and far enough away now. And she's short handed."
"Where? Which ship?"
The Admiral reached for his pen. "On the West coast of America. Thunder."
II
March 1917.
The night was dark under an overcast sky. H.M.S. Thunder, a darkened ship, was a black speck on the black immensity of the Pacific. Her crew were tensed at their action stations and Commander David Cochrane Smith stood on her bridge gratings, peering with his hands clenched tight on the rail. Look-outs strained their eyes against the darkness. Somewhere to the east lay the coast of Peru but the enemy was close.
A look-out shouted, "Ship bearing green four-oh." There was a rumble as the guns trained around and the searchlights on the wings of the bridge and up in the tops twisted in their mountings. They crackled into life, their beams stabbed out across the dark sea to light up the target on which the guns were lined. They lit up Thunder's forty-foot steam pinnace with its stubby funnel, young Midshipman Manton at the wheel. Buckley, Mantor's leading hand, lifted one arm, waving, the pinnace spun away into the sheltering dark, the searchlights snapped out. The exercise went on.
The exercises were almost a nightly event. Smith had started them as soon as he joined Thunder so they called them Smith's game and referred to him as the Bat. They groused about the exercises as a matter of principle but secretly found the game a break in the deadly routine of work and drills. They had become expert.
Smith stood aloof on the bridge, his face grim. He had reason. He had come to Thunder certain that he was banished, his career virtually at an end. He had known other officers who had faded into obscurity after some minor scandal ashore. He joined her at Esquimalt in British Columbia where she had just had a refit. In the first hour, through a chance-heard conversation he learned his reputation had preceded him: he was a pacifist, his nerve gone; his affaires were the scandal of London and the Grand Fleet. He knew the crew were wary of him and pride would not let him explain.
