Dangerous Waters (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  Nevertheless, it was a pretty tall order.

  Cameron had asked what would be the result if he should be taken by the Germans and the notes read. Razakis had grinned and drawn a hand across his throat; and had added, ‘But the letters... they must not be found or Xarchios will die. There are matches wrapped in the oilskin. The letters are to be burned in time, if you are in serious danger.’

  That, too, was a tall order. An assessment would have to be made; he could destroy the letters too soon, and be left without authority, and then the partisans rather than the Nazis might do the killing unless he could talk fast and convincingly enough. His heart in his mouth, Cameron paddled on. He felt that the Carley float must stand out a mile beneath the moon and the stars: if only the weather had co-operated! When he was an estimated mile off the shore-line, he obeyed orders and went over into the sea, and, keeping his head below the gunwale of the float, swam and pushed onward. The theory was that if the float should be spotted it would be put down as being one from a sunken vessel drifting in on the slight onshore breeze and no more notice might be taken of it.

  Might!

  The theory was as full of holes as a sieve, in fact. The Germans were far from being fools, although according to Razakis they had rigid minds and the float’s emptiness would convey no more than the simple fact of emptiness. Razakis, in Cameron’s view, tended, like Kopoulos, to underestimate the enemy, regarding them with a dangerous contempt. Cameron swam on; beneath his shorts, secured to his waist by a lanyard, a revolver wrapped in oilskin like the letters bumped uncomfortably yet with a faintly reassuring feel. At least he might take some Germans with him if the worst happened, as he felt by now convinced it must. However, in the event he landed easily enough and apparently unseen; the beach was deserted and he was soon in cover of the rocks with the Carley float drawn up on the shingle in the lee of a jutting overhang. He identified the goat-track as indicated by Razakis, and started the climb. It was not a long one. The track merged into a rough roadway, the one that would take him direct to the village; and within a few minutes of meeting this roadway he saw the small cluster of dwellings, standing out white beneath the moon. No lights were showing anywhere, and there were no people to be seen: the Germans customarily brought their curfew regulations with them. There were no German troops either, or if there were then they were keeping hidden. Cameron was moving fast now, hugging the lee of the rough, crumbling wall that ran alongside the road. As he closed the village outskirts, he saw a light and caught the sound of music and singing, and laughter. This was coming from the bar run by Xarchios; curfew or no curfew, the Kithnos Greeks were not kept from their liquor. Razakis had said, if they couldn’t leave the bar because of the curfew, then they would remain there through the night.

  Cameron halted, keeping close to the wall. Cautiously, he looked over. There was a rough, rock-strewn field, with a solitary goat tethered to a wooden post. Again following Razakis’s instructions, Cameron got quickly over the wall, paused a while until he was sure no one was about, then ran, bent double in the lee of scrubby bushes, across the field diagonally to his right to come up at the back of the bar.

  Then he became aware of the Germans. They were in good cover and could be seen only as dull gleams of moonlight on the metal of their steel helmets. They made no apparent movement: possibly he had not been seen, or more probably, he thought, they were waiting for him to show his intentions by approaching the bar. And if that was so, then the involvement of Xarchios in the capture of von Rudsdorf must presumably have become known to, or at any rate suspected by, the German authorities, who were now waiting to put the bar owner into the bag. After that, von Rudsdorf himself. It was clear enough now to Cameron why the Germans hadn’t been watching the coast. Why bother, when all they had to do was to hang about at the goal-post and then make their arrest?

  Cameron had flattened to the ground on sighting the metallic gleams and currently lay hidden behind a large boulder. Now there was a waiting game to be played out: one side or the other — assuming Cameron had been spotted — had to make a move. Cameron grinned tightly to himself; it wasn’t going to be him, even though he had a schedule to keep to and if he missed it, the Wharfedale would go to sea without him. She would come back in. If, now, he moved towards Xarchios’s bar, he would be either dead or in the bag to face execution as a spy, unless the Germans were willing to accept his blackened Naval shorts as an item of service uniform.

  He believed he had been seen. The helmets moved, the outline of the German uniforms came into view, so did the muzzles of their rifles, which were most likely the 7.99-mm KAR-98K carrying a five-round magazine. The sentries seemed to be conferring, seemed to be uncertain, possibly wondering whether or not they had been seen by the intruder. Then their doubts appeared to be resolved: they moved out from cover, two men with some dozen yards between them, coming fast for where they had last seen Cameron, moving at a crouching run with their rifles ready. Behind his boulder Cameron had his revolver out, and now he thumbed back the hammer. He might not have much of a hope of coming out of this, but at least he might get one of the German soldiers. From his cover he chose one of them, the man on his right, and waited for him to come within revolver range. Then, suddenly and just at the wrong moment, the silver light dimmed as a large cloud rolled across the moon. Cameron lost sight of the man he had been watching and when he picked him up again, both he and his companion had moved on past him; neither of them could have been more than a matter of yards from him to each flank. Now they were still moving at their crouching run, pursuing nothing with dogged Germanic determination.

  Cameron grinned again and lost no time. Getting to his feet, he ran lightly towards the back of Xarchios’s bar and a gate into a small walled garden. The Germans were quite oblivious. In the garden’s safety he paused to take a breath, listening to the sounds of revelry coming from within, then he approached the back door. It was unlocked; he lifted the catch and went in. He entered a short passage, lit by a flickering oil lamp. Light was coming from round the jamb of a door at the end — light and noise: the bar, obviously. Remembering Razakis’s instruction not to enter the bar, Cameron opened another door, one to his right, took a step forward into darkness, and then plunged painfully on his back down a flight of stone steps, crashing at the bottom into something hard. There was an almighty crash and bottles broke around him; he seemed to have overturned a bottle-rack. He got up, felt himself for broken bones and other damage, and found that he was intact though undoubtedly badly bruised.

  Light shone down from above and in its glow Cameron saw a wooden peg-leg. Clearly, he had now attracted the attention of Xarchios. As the man came down the steps cursing angrily the light showed the bearded face and the wide, hairless scar. Xarchios began asking questions in his own language. Cameron answered in English. ‘I come from Razakis, who is aboard a British destroyer. He sends these.’

  He handed over the oilskin-wrapped letters. Xarchios gave him a long, slow look, then read. Having read, he nodded and said, in English now, ‘The letters are genuine, this I know. I was expecting Razakis himself.’

  ‘My Captain decided it was better he didn’t come.’

  ‘So you were sent, yes. And you want the German. You were not seen to come? The sentries —’

  ‘They’re looking for someone they won’t find.’ Briefly, Cameron explained. He had just finished when there was a heavy banging on the back door and then the sound of it being flung back on its hinges. Xarchios turned away and went fast up the stone steps, carrying his lamp. There was a loud conversation, a hectoring one on the part of the returned sentries, who seemed to be insisting on a search of the premises. There was a language difficulty; the soldiers spoke no Greek, Xarchios had no German. They reached a compromise on English, of which the Germans had a smattering. Cameron listened.

  Xarchios was saying, ‘Oh, yes, now I understand. Yes, there is an intruder... a man who has entered my cellar and smashed bottles.’

  ‘We go,’ a Ge
rman voice said.

  Xarchios said blandly, ‘You know where the door is.’

  ‘To the cellar, fool!’

  ‘By all means.’ In the lamp’s light, Cameron saw the Greek stand aside, smiling obsequiously. His heart like lead at an apparent betrayal, Cameron felt around for his revolver, which had clattered away when he fell; he couldn’t find it. He was aware of the Germans moving towards the top of the steps, was aware of Xarchios putting his lamp down on the floor of the passage and then moving up behind the two men... and then, very suddenly, the soldiers crashed down the steps, bouncing and pouring blood. Hardly a sound had been uttered. Cameron, dodging the bodies, saw Xarchios, now with his lamp in his hand again, coming down the steps, smiling and happy. Cameron looked again at the bodies: each had landed face down, and from each back a knife-haft protruded. Xarchios said, ‘A double thrust... my left hand is as strong as my right, and with as true an aim for the heart. There will be no trouble until the guard changes. By that time, we shall be with von Rudsdorf.’

  ‘And after that, Xarchios?’

  ‘After that — to the beach, my friend!’

  Cameron said, ‘I meant what happens to you when the Germans find the bodies?’

  ‘There would be much trouble, for I cannot dispose of the bodies in time. Von Rudsdorf comes first. This place will be no longer safe for me, for Xarchios, and I have no family left now... I shall come with you to your ship.’

  *

  Von Rudsdorf was not far away from the village, which was fortunate: time was running out fast. Xarchios, who was armed with a sub-machine-gun, was unworried about the curfew; it was a risk, certainly, but one that had to be taken if the German was to be got away. ‘The Germans are not yet fully organized,’ he said as they made their way into the countryside from the rear of the bar premises. ‘They are not strong in Kithnos — they need all possible forces on the mainland and in Crete. We shall not be seen.’

  Cameron asked, ‘Can we make it back to the beach before dawn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Xarchios was running now, fast for a heavy man; Cameron had difficulty in keeping up with him. Shipboard life didn’t make for fitness in marathon runs. After some ten minutes, the Greek slowed. The moon’s light was streaming down again now, and as the two closed a hillside Cameron saw the dark shadow that indicated the entry to a cave. Xarchios advanced towards this entry at a trot, carrying his submachine-gun loosely in one hand. It was Cameron who spotted the glint of the moon on metal, just inside the cave entrance. He gave a warning, but Xarchios laughed and said, ‘It is my friends, who guard von Rudsdorf.’

  He began to shout a greeting; but before he had uttered more than a word or two the cave entry came alive with flame and smoke as the concealed guns opened fire.

  12

  XARCHIOS fell to the ground, cursing and holding his left upper arm. He dropped the sub-machine-gun. As the German bullets zipped around, ricocheting off the rock, Cameron flattened beside the Greek.

  ‘Take my gun,’ Xarchios said.

  Cameron did so. As the Germans showed themselves by their gun-flashes, he fired a long burst. There was a cry from the cave mouth, and the German guns stopped firing. Cameron, breathing hard, asked, ‘Now what do we do, Xarchios?’

  ‘There is another entry,’ Xarchios said. His arm was pouring blood now. ‘The Germans may know of it, and they may not. It would be better for us to use it, rather than advance into more gunfire, perhaps.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  Xarchios gave a laugh that ended in a wince of pain. ‘There speaks the British officer who is worried about his deadline! Von Rudsdorf comes first, the deadline is unimportant... but no, it is not far, though it means a hard climb. Come — but remain flat on the ground.’

  The Greek squirmed away to the rear. Cameron followed on his stomach, feeling the stickiness of Xarchios’s blood on the hard ground. There was no more firing from the cave entry; it seemed that any further German troops were awaiting the next move from the intruders rather than stick their necks out again; but soon there could well be a reconnaissance party sent out to investigate. Xarchios meanwhile was moving fast. Once again, Cameron had a hard job to keep up; within minutes his unprotected body was torn and bruised from the crawl over the rocky ground as he followed the partisan leader around a great jagged outcrop to their left — a welcome enough shelter, temporarily at any rate, from the Nazi guns. Once past the outcrop, the climb began. Xarchios remained on his stomach; the moon was too bright for risks to be taken now, and the clitter — the age-old volcanic rubble — gave adequate cover if care was used.

  The climb was sheer hell.

  Up and up, crawling painfully. Cameron’s knees and elbows suffered the most, but his entire chest and stomach seemed to become raw meat as the climb continued without respite and, seemingly, without end, right up to the heavens and the unkind light of the moon. From below them now, there came the sounds of men on the move. They heard voices; these spurred Xarchios on to superhuman efforts of speed. The Greek was bleeding still, losing, Cameron thought, far too much blood to go on for much longer. The breathing of both men became painful and gasping. But at last the ordeal came to its end, and Xarchios slowed, then stopped and put out a hand to Cameron.

  ‘Ahead and to the right,’ he said. ‘Do you see?’

  Cameron looked towards the bearing as indicated. ‘See what?’ he asked.

  ‘A hole. A hole in the ground... what you in England call a pothole, I believe. Come!’ Xarchios moved on again, once more halted Cameron as he approached the pothole. Now Cameron could see it: a hole, perhaps three feet across, obscured until now by thickly-growing scrub. Xarchios said, ‘My arm. The blood pours too much. You know how to apply a strip of shirt so that it stops the flow?’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Cameron said. He helped Xarchios to pull off his shirt and then ripped a sleeve from it, found a suitable piece of dead wood from a bush and twisted the shirt-sleeve above the wound. Xarchios thanked him and then the two men pulled themselves to the lip of the hole: it yawned black and dangerous, dropping into the earth’s belly, a terrifying pit. Xarchios said, ‘It is easier than it looks.’

  ‘You’ve been down it?’

  ‘Many, many times. The tunnel slopes, at first steeply, then more gently, and the sides are smooth.’ The Greek paused. ‘I cannot promise what may be at the bottom. There may be Nazis. But now we must take the risk if we are to get von Rudsdorf out of Kithnos. You are willing?’

  Cameron nodded; he had no option. Orders were orders, and his were clear enough. Xarchios said, ‘Good! I shall go first. You will give me fifteen seconds, then you will follow. You understand? Fifteen seconds for safe clearance, no more, no less.’

  ‘Right,’ Cameron said. He studied his wrist-watch, took his time from the moment Xarchios went over and vanished at speed into the hillside’s depths. Fifteen seconds precisely... then, taking a deep breath and offering up heartfelt prayers, he swung his legs into the hole and let go of the surface. It might have been an exhilarating sensation in other circum-stances but not now. The descent was appalling: he seemed to drop like a stone, drop into the totally unknown at high speed, hardly touching the sides at all until the steep incline eased and the speed came off gradually. Now the front of his body was in full contact with the tunnel; Xarchios had been right — it was astonishingly smooth and hard, like glass.

  He stopped quite suddenly as his feet touched rock: the end of the tunnel. He turned over and sat up, more than half expectant of the Nazi guns somewhere in the total darkness, waiting for him. But when a voice came it was Xarchios’s.

  ‘All is well. There are no Nazis.’

  Cameron said, ‘Thank God for that. Have we far to go now, Xarchios?’

  ‘Again the deadline! We shall make it — I have a boat, a fishing boat—’

  ‘We have to get out of here first, haven’t we? How do we climb that tunnel?’

  ‘Patience and you will see.’ Xarchios’s face was close, though
totally invisible: the smell of garlic swept Cameron’s nostrils, strong and sour. ‘Now we go on. Keep very near — here, take a hold of my belt, and do not let go. Whatever you do, do not let go, for if you become lost you will wander through the earth for ever until you die of starvation.’

  They moved through the total invisibility, taking it slow. Cameron had never known such darkness; it seemed to enter his very soul, to press his eyeballs inwards, to inhibit all movement. But he set his teeth and moved on, cannoning into rock walls on either side, bumping his head painfully on downward-hanging projections. Xarchios was apparently moving by feel alone, stopping now and then to mutter to himself in his own language, then moving carefully on again. He passed instructions and guidance back to Cameron as they turned into side passages; another drop, a short one this time, came up ahead, revealed to Xarchios by a count of footsteps from a turn in the tunnel. Even with the Greek’s warning, Cameron felt every bone in his body jar as he went over the three-foot drop suddenly and landed with unflexed legs. On again, down and down... the air was stale, close. He was sweating now, getting hotter himself though the cave’s temperature was even. The sweat poured into his lacerations, stinging and burning. He fought down rising panic; would they ever get out? If anything should happen to Xarchios his number would be up for certain. His life would end in an eternity of blind blundering around in the earth’s stomach, sealed, entombed... an unnatural end for a seaman! He fixed his mind ahead: if Xarchios lived, they would make it — Nazis permitting, of course — and he would rejoin his ship. He thought about the Wharfedale, cruising in the open sea clear of Kithnos. She too would be in continuing danger and would remain so until she was once again out of the Aegean and back in Cunningham’s Pond, bound again for the Grand Harbour in Malta... a different sort of danger and one that Cameron would much prefer to be facing. It would be quite a moment, when they steamed back past Malta’s breakwater, past Fort St Angelo through the bright blue water of the world above...