Dangerous Waters (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Stop,’ Xarchios said suddenly, keeping his voice low. Cameron stopped.

  Xarchios spoke again, turning to breathe more garlic into Cameron’s ear. ‘Von Rudsdorf is in a side cave leading off the passage when we turn one more corner. That is, he should be.’

  ‘Should be?’

  ‘The Nazis may have moved him. I think this is possible, for there is no sound from ahead, and we are close enough to hear the movement of guards. If there are no guards, then there will be no von Rudsdorf. Also, I would expect light, and there is no light.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  Xarchios said, ‘I shall go on and see what is to be seen. You will stay here, and not move. I will take my gun now.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘There will be no buts, no argument.’ The tone was final. ‘For now I am in charge and you will do as I say. I know the cave system like the back of my hand, which the Nazis do not and nor do you. Do not move a finger or a foot — or your tongue. I shall be back quickly.’

  Cameron was aware of Xarchios moving away from him: the aloneness struck home forcibly. He sweated more than ever. The silence was as total as the darkness. Xarchios knew how to move without making a sound. It was almost as though Cameron was bereft of two of his senses. The wait seemed endless, and imagination expanded: Xarchios would walk into a trap and that would be the finish.

  But Xarchios did not walk into a trap. As promised, he was quickly back: as he felt for Cameron’s presence with outstretched fingers, Xarchios said, ‘I have von Rudsdorf with me. He was never found by the Nazis, who have not been here long I believe. We have been lucky! The cave system is complicated, and our partisans had left the German bound. He is still gagged and his wrists still tied —’

  ‘How do we get him out?’ Cameron asked urgently. ‘We can’t climb back up the tunnel, surely?’

  ‘No, no. That would be impossible. We fight him out,’ Xarchios said. ‘I have two things: my sub-machine-gun, and the advantage of complete surprise. The German will go in the middle — I have released his ankles — and you will hold tight to him, and follow.’

  ‘To the main entrance, where we —?’

  ‘Exactly so,’ Xarchios interrupted. ‘It will be a surprise attack from the rear, you see. Now we go.’

  They moved off with the captive von Rudsdorf between them. It was a long trek through continuing darkness, but the Greek’s sense of direction, his close knowledge of the cave system, was equal to it. The small procession turned many corners, climbed in places, descended again in others, pressing on for the exit. They moved fast; even Xarchios now seemed to have some regard for Cameron’s rendezvous with the destroyer. At long last, they found glimmerings of light ahead at the end of a narrow tunnel along which they had to move bent almost double. The Greek whispered back over his shoulder to Cameron.

  ‘The light of torches. The Nazis are there.’

  ‘Are they near the exit?’

  ‘Very close, yes. I think they watch for another approach, a frontal one. Soon there will be action. You are ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ Cameron said.

  ‘Good! You will keep behind me, and watch the German carefully. He must not get away now.’

  They moved fast still, but Xarchios slowed a little as they came towards the end of the tunnel, then he stopped. From behind him Cameron could see the backs of three German soldiers, armed and obviously on the alert as they faced the exit, which now stood out as the moonlight streamed through. As Cameron watched, another man joined the group, an NCO. Xarchios said, ‘Four at least... perhaps many more. We shall see. Now it is speed that will count. That, and the surprise which will be very great. When I run, you run. We must be very careful to keep together, you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cameron said, feeling the increased thump of his heart. Behind the German, he moved on, not fast yet. Xarchios was waiting his moment. The Greek halted once more, just inside the tunnel’s end, but only very briefly for a final reconnaissance. Then, with the Nazi’s backs still turned towards him, he came out at the rush, firing his sub-machine-gun in a sweeping arc as he ran, Cameron gripping von Rudsdorf and forcing him on behind the Greek. All four soldiers fell, virtually colandered by the rapid fire. Xarchios and the other two were out of the cave, into the open air and the moonlight, almost before the last German had gone down in his pool of blood. They ran like the wind, but there was no pursuit. Evidently they had got the lot.

  As he ran, Cameron glanced at his watch: a little after 0230 hours. One and a half hours to go.

  *

  ‘The fishing boat,’ Xarchios said as they reached the coast. ‘It has sails and it has an engine also. When we are well offshore, I shall start the engine. Not until then.’

  ‘But we’ll be seen in any case. Why not make all speed from the start?’

  Xarchios grinned. ‘The moon, yes. It is unkind, is that moon. But we met no one between the cave and here... I have told you already, the Nazis’ presence on Kithnos is small. We may be seen, but I believe we shall not be. If we are, then it is not unusual for fishing boats to leave before the dawn — but when there is wind, they do not use their engines. There is wind, as you can see... and engine sounds might attract some attention. So no engines at the start.’

  ‘All right,’ Cameron said, shrugging. ‘We’ll do it your way, Xarchios. Where’s the boat?’

  ‘Close to where you landed. Come!’

  Xarchios moved on. They came round a jut of rock and found a shallow bay. Xarchios’s boat could be seen in the moonlight; it was small but adequate. They went forward and as they closed the boat Xarchios prodded von Rudsdorf with his sub-machine-gun. ‘I shall cut away the rope on your wrists,’ he said, ‘and you will lend your weight to launch my boat. If you try to escape I shall shoot you in both your legs and you will be crippled. Do you understand?’

  The German, still gagged, nodded: he spoke English, evidently. Xarchios brought out a knife and sliced through the rope around the wrists; von Rudsdorf rubbed life back into his hands. All three got around the boat and pushed it towards the water, which was covered with small wavelets brought up by the breeze as night slipped towards dawn. Scanning the horizon on the expected bearing, Cameron found no sign of the Wharfedale. When the fishing boat was waterborne, Xarchios saw von Rudsdorf over the gunwale, then got aboard himself with Cameron and ran up the sail, which soon filled with the wind; they stood offshore, setting course north-westward to Cameron’s directions. He exulted in the feeling of being back at sea, free of the cave’s terrible constriction and the feeling of claustrophobia which it gave. There was freedom in the wind itself, the wind that was carrying them nicely clear of Kithnos and its Nazi occupation. Xarchios was anxious to meet Razakis again, as he now said.

  ‘Razakis is a good friend, a good fighter for Greece. To join him will be much pleasure to me. And with von Rudsdorf in his hands, Razakis will be able to change the course of history, and bring the power of the Soviets to the assistance of Greece, and drive out the Nazis!’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Cameron said. ‘It seems to me that Russia’s going to be pretty fully occupied in dealing with Hitler’s invasion... whether or not Comrade Stalin gets the warning ahead.’

  ‘When Hitler knows Comrade Stalin has got it,’ Xarchios said, ‘he may change his plans!’

  Cameron doubted the proposition, but said no more. It was not up to him to dampen Xarchios’s hopes; the guerrilla’s homeland of Greece was everything to him, and Cameron wished him and his fellow-countrymen the best of luck in the casting-off of the Nazi yoke. In Britain, they still didn’t know what it was to be occupied — yet. The day could come, but with the immensity of the Soviet Union on their side it would be unlikely. Cameron, fully realizing the importance of getting von Rudsdorf into Russian territory so that his vital information could be repeated in person, stared ahead across the as yet dark waters: still no Wharfedale, and now the dawn was not far off and the sea would soon lighten dangerously.


  He was about to urge Xarchios to use his engines when the Greek, turning his head to look back towards the coast, gave a sudden exclamation. Cameron looked round: a boat was leaving the shore, a power boat coming up fast on their port quarter, throwing up a bow-wave and wake clearly visible as brilliant streaks of green phosphorescence. ‘Now the engine!’ Xarchios said, and busied himself in the stern of the boat. After some preliminary coughs, the outboard engine stuttered into life; it didn’t, in fact, appear to make much difference to their speed — not enough, anyway, to compete with the boat coming up astern. A voice, a guttural voice speaking German, shouted through an amplified loud-hailer, and Xarchios, his face contorted with fury, made an obscene gesture towards the power boat. As he held his course and speed, the firing started. Bullets zipped across, but fell harmlessly into the sea astern. The fishing boat was not yet quite within range, but it was only a matter of minutes now. As the gap closed fast, the boat’s sail showed a line of holes. The power boat, now very nearly abeam, had them well in its sights. Xarchios gave a roar of sudden pain and slumped across the gunwale with his head sagging into the sea; Cameron, needing all his strength to do so, dragged the Greek back into the well of the boat. The face was a mess: the jaw had been ripped off and blood was flowing freely. The Greek’s curses were indistinct, and were cut off finally when another burst of fire, cutting through the boat’s flimsy sides, smashed into his head and neck.

  *

  ‘Did you hear that, sir?’ Drummond, on the compass platform of the Wharfedale, swung his glasses to the bearing.

  ‘I did, Number One. Machine-gun fire, I fancy. Coming from around the cape ahead there.’ Sawbridge looked at the gyro repeater for a moment, then passed his orders. ‘Starboard ten... steady! Full ahead both engines.’

  He stepped away from the binnacle; he had approached Kithnos on a different course from his first run in, and had a jut of land between his ship and the point where he had landed Cameron, his idea being to keep concealed from the departure beach for as long as possible. Now his presence might well be needed, and it was time to show. Using his glasses as the destroyer, under full power and throwing up a massive bow-wave, began to move round the cape, he picked up the two boats.

  He turned to Drummond. ‘Searchlight, Number One,’ he ordered tersely. ‘Stand by all guns’ crews.’

  The orders were quickly passed; the searchlight flickered into life and was beamed on to the gun-battle ahead. The boats came up brilliantly lit, every detail clear. In the fishing boat Cameron could be seen, pumping away with Xarchios’s sub-machine-gun. In the power boat were Nazi uniforms. So fierce was the battle that as yet no one appeared to be reacting to the searchlight. Sawbridge, gripping the forward guardrail tightly, passed the helm orders to ram and sink. Sweeping on, with his close-range weapons’ crews ready at their triggers, he saw the German faces as at last the Wharfedale herself was seen behind the searchlight. They showed stark fear and utter astonishment in the second or two before the destroyer hit. The power boat was taken flat amidships and carried on, in disintegrating pieces, by the destroyer’s thrusting stem. Those pieces fell away as flotsam from the bows and the German bodies were swept aft to be mangled in the fast-turning screws. Sawbridge waited a moment then stopped engines. He brought Wharfedale round to port, coming up astern of the fishing boat, and gave Cameron a wave.

  ‘Well done!’ he shouted down. ‘Have you got that bloody Nazi, von Rudsdorf?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And alive, too!’

  ‘Right. You’d better abandon ship pronto and I’ll lower a boat. The sooner we’re out of here, the better I’ll like it.’

  Sawbridge swung round as the First Lieutenant called to him. ‘What is it, Number One?’ Then he saw what had attracted Drummond’s attention: a long, low silhouette had appeared on the horizon to the north-west and was turning bows-on to make an approach. ‘A bloody destroyer... and a pound to a penny it won’t be one of ours! Get the seaboat away at once, Number One, and for God’s sake don’t let’s have any dilly-dallying! Warn the Torpedo-Gunner... I may go in and use his tin fish.’

  13

  CAMERON and von Rudsdorf were brought aboard in double-quick time and the seaboat was hoisted to the davits and left swung out. The fishing boat drifted away, still carrying Xarchios’s mangled body. The moment the seaboat was clear of the water, Sawbridge swung his ship towards the destroyer, now racing in to engage. Her silhouette had been identified by now; she was an enemy right enough, an Italian. Sawbridge had made his final decision not to attempt a running battle with his after guns out of action, but to go in and fire off his torpedoes. At the tubes, Mr Vibart, Gunner (T), spat on his hands with much relish and anticipation. His torpedoes were in first-class trim and would run true... he almost knew them all by name, in a manner of speaking, very intimately and with much affection. He would be sorry to see them go, but it was their duty, their purpose in life, to go; and so far in this war Mr Vibart hadn’t had much chance to fire off his tubes. It had become largely a war of bloody aircraft, unsusceptible to torpedoes, the buggers... now he had his chance and he was going to show what he could do, what he had been trained to do since the day he’d first opted for the torpedo branch as a seaman torpedoman. He spat on his hands again and glanced at his Torpedo-Gunner’s Mate.

  ‘All right, eh, Charlie?’

  ‘All right, sir.’

  ‘Let’s bloody wop it ‘em!’ Mr Vibart said. ‘Bloody Eyeties! Get the buggers before they piss off!’

  ‘I don’t reckon they’re going to piss off,’ the TGM said sourly: he had seen the still-distant flash from the Italian’s fo’c’sle, and seconds later both he and the Gunner (T) and all the tubes’ crews were drenched with seawater as the shell registered a near miss. Then another.

  ‘Strewth!’ Mr Vibart said unbelievingly. ‘Never known the Eyeties to shoot so bloody straight. What’s the skipper up to, I wonder?’

  He had his answer within the next ten seconds as Wharfedale opened with her forward 4.7s. The ship vibrated to the crash and recoil of the guns as the charges exploded, sending the projectiles winging across towards the enemy. No hits were registered; each target, bows-on, was small to its opponent. But as the Italian’s rangetaking and laying improved, a shell took Wharfedale close along her port side and exploded just below the bridge by the Carley float stowage. The structural damage was superficial but the casualties along the upper deck were heavy. Bloodied strips of flesh hung from broken steelwork below the bridge, and farther aft two of Mr Vibart’s torpedomen were badly lacerated by shell splinters. On the compass platform, Sawbridge decided it was time to throw off the Italian’s gunners by some zig-zagging before coming in on a steady course to fire off his torpedoes. The zig-zag seemed to be effective; the firing became a shade wild. As the two destroyers closed, Sawbridge prepared to start his torpedo run.

  ‘Stand by tubes,’ he ordered. At the tubes Mr Vibart got the message via the communication number’s head-set. He nodded at the TGM: the stand-by warning was passed to the crews. The show was about to start. As Wharfedale rushed on to pass the Italian starboard to starboard, the gun-battle intensified; the British destroyer seemed to run in under an umbrella of shells from the Italian’s main armament. As the two bows approached, with the ships some eight cables apart, the Italian seemed at last to comprehend Sawbridge’s intentions, and she began a swing to port just as Sawbridge passed the executive down to the tubes.

  Mr Vibart’s response was immediate. His voice rose over the sound of the continuing gunfire: ‘Fire one... fire two... fire three!’

  As the tubes hissed and the torpedoes plopped into the water Mr Vibart stood and watched their runs. They were true; the dawn was coming up fast now, and for a while he could follow the trails through the sea. But of course the perishing Eyetie had turned away: Mr Vibart swore viciously. His lovely, lethal torpedoes, finned and fish-shaped and engined, were all going to be wasted. But were they? Some-thing was happening to the Eyetie: there was an explosion of a she
ll aft and she swung farther to port.

  Mr Vibart snatched off his steel helmet and waved it in the air. ‘Our lads got the bugger’s screws with the 4.7s, Charlie! She’s not under control!’

  The TGM nodded: it had been a slice of luck. The Italian was coming round slap into the paths of the running fish, and she was set fair to get her guts blown out. The torpedomen watched, Vibart using his binoculars to try to keep a view of the tracks, but he had lost them now. However, a moment later twin explosions, one for’ard, one aft, came from the Italian. Bright red flame burgeoned, there was a devilish roar, and thick smoke rose. For a moment the destroyer seemed almost to rise in the air, then to take a list to port, with men dropping from her decks into the sea. In the next moment she had settled with her main deck awash, and then she had gone.

  Mr Vibart looked across at the scene soberly. Two out of three — that wasn’t bad in any Gunner (T)’s book! But now the thing was over, there was little rejoicing even if there was satisfaction in training having paid off. No seaman really liked to see the end of a ship, nor to witness human agony. Vibart listened to the weird silence that had replaced the crash of gunfire. The communication number, attending to his head-phones, said, ‘From the Captain, sir. Well done and congratulations.’