by Alan Evans
Night Action
Alan Evans
© Alan Evans 1989
Alan Evans has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1989 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd.
This edition is published by Endeavour Press Ltd. in 2014.
This is a work of fiction and resemblance of any character to a real person, living or dead, is coincidental. The locale of St. Jean is also fictional but not untypical.
Table of Contents
Chapter One - November 1940
Chapter Two - December 1941
Chapter Three - “At all costs!”
Chapter Four - “We’ve done this before”
Chapter Five - “...A damn fine action!”
Chapter Six - “On fire!”
Chapter Seven - Ambush
Chapter Eight - Like jumping without a parachute
Chapter Nine - The Schütze
Chapter Ten - “All patrols to close on the river!”
Chapter Eleven - “That’ll stir things up!”
Chapter Twelve - Assault!
Chapter Thirteen - “I — am — sinking!”
Chapter Fourteen - The cellar
Chapter Fifteen - In the sunlight
Acknowledgments
Extract from Seek Out and Destroy by Alan Evans
Chapter One - November 1940
The girl was blonde and pretty, thin-faced and wide-mouthed. She sat at a table outside a café and smiled into the camera and the sun. Her long legs were crossed and the skirt of the cotton summer dress hitched back over her knees. Teasing; this was a nice girl being naughty for her lover. Then the picture was lost in the blink of an eye as the boat rolled in the swell, a pencil skittered across the chart and he trapped it with one big hand.
Lieutenant David Brent was tall so he stooped under the deckhead of the wheel-house. It was used as a chartroom now because the captains of the motor torpedo boats preferred to con them from the bridge; they could see better from there. The bridge was right over David’s head and he could hear the scuff of boots on the gratings.
He stared down only at the stained chart of the Channel and the coast of France; there was no photograph. He had torn that up but he could not erase the picture of the girl from his mind. Now he told himself: You’d better forget it. But that was not easy though the parting had been months before when she stood by the train in Paris and told him, “It’s over, David... finished.”
His wet oilskins, glistening under the light, hung open over old blue trousers and sweater, dripped sea water onto the deck. He took off his battered cap and ran long fingers through the thick black hair that needed cutting. He scowled, the brows meeting over the dark eyes, not liking what the chart showed.
His was one of three boats engaged in a raid on the French coast. The other two boats had landed a party of twenty commandos at a village that lay a mile up a river, although for navigational purposes it was little more than a stream. The estuary spread wide but shallow between low banks and mud flats. There was only one buoyed passage with water deep enough for the boats to manoeuvre up to the jetty which ran out from the village. After putting the commandos ashore the boats would have hauled away from the jetty, and would now be lying out in the deep-water channel until the soldiers had to be re-embarked.
Intelligence reports said there were no German troops in the estuary and it seemed that information was correct because the commandos had gone ashore without any sound of firing. Their objective was a power station set by the side of a dam a half-mile upriver from the village and again it was reported as unguarded. They were to blow up the machinery in the power station and then return.
David wondered at the lack of defences, decided it was because the Germans didn’t think they were needed as the village was so far upriver and only consisted of a dozen houses. Besides, the French population had not resisted so far and these commando raids were a new idea. Just the same, he was uneasy about this job and he wasn’t the only one. The senior lieutenant in overall command of the three boats had told Brent, “I want you to stay outside and watch the back door. Besides, there’s no sense putting all our eggs in one basket so I’m only taking two boats in. It looks quiet enough but if it goes bad on us then you pull out.”
The leader had gone in — David glanced at his watch — just an hour ago. He climbed quickly from the wheel-house to the bridge, went to the starboard side and stood in the corner next to the coxswain at the wheel. Here he could see the boat for all of its seventy-foot length. She was nineteen feet in the beam but up here the bridge was barely five feet wide. The torpedo tubes were mounted on the deck either side of the bridge, while aft of it was an open-topped turret in which were mounted twin Vickers .5-inch machine-guns.
The night sky was overcast, with neither moon nor stars. That was a blessing because a fine summer night with a moon would have exposed the boats on the sea as on a lit stage. His boat lay two miles outside the estuary so he could not see the lift of the land broad on either side of the bow.
He asked the coxswain, “Anything seen on shore?”
“No, sir.” Leading Seaman Grundy was a head shorter than Brent but stood solidly at the wheel on thick legs. At just twenty-two years old he was still the senior non-commissioned rank aboard and the link between David and the lower deck. Grundy had just been promoted coxswain and into Brent’s boat. Easy trust was still to come; each was still on trial in the eyes of the other.
David thought uneasily: All right, so far. It was his duty to watch the back door so he stepped away from the bridge screen and lifted his voice to remind everyone: “Keep a good look-out all round.” But he himself saw it less than a minute later, just a creeping, darker mass against the background of the night sky. He asked the signalman next to him, “Port bow, one mile. What d’you see?”
The signalman’s big binoculars swung to follow the line of his own: “Something there, sir… ship… maybe a trawler? Steaming very slow.”
Not a warship, not a destroyer, but certainly an enemy, armed and inshore, between him and the estuary. Brent wondered: A trap set? And as if in answer the signalman said, “I think she’s stopped, sir.”
Brent was sure of it. She lay a bit less than a mile ahead now, on his port bow and on the left side of the estuary. He had been ordered to watch the back door and now it had been shut in his face. He shifted the binoculars to peer past the ship into the black valley of the estuary. He did not see any flash but heard the far-off rumbling of the explosions at the power station almost three miles away.
The signalman muttered, “Hear that, sir? Sounds like they’ve done it.”
Brent grunted agreement. The soldiers had done their work — but had some cunning local Wehrmacht commander received a report that they were ashore and guessed that someone would be waiting to bring them out? If this ship was one jaw of a trap then the other would be on the shore.
His gaze returned to the ship and he lifted his cap, ran fingers through his hair then settled the cap again. Grundy was coming to know the gesture that marked stress — or decision. Brent said, “Attacking.” He spoke on the voice-pipe to the engine-room, “Auxiliaries.” The little V-8 motor would only give around six knots but was quiet, while the three big main engines would be heard for miles.
He was again at Grundy’s side, wedged in that starboard corner of the bridge and watching the ship as his boat stole in on her. You wanted the range to be about five hundred yards so there was some way to go — and in near silence. If you made a noise the enemy would hear you and use your boat for target practice. And that
boat was fragile, with a thin skin that would not keep out a rifle bullet, and two thousand gallons of high octane petrol in its tanks. Murmur of the engine, soft lap of the water under the bow…
The ship was under way, moving again from left to right, easing out slowly to lie off the centre of the deep-water channel. He thought she was making no more than six knots and he set that, and her course, on the torpedo sight on the front of the bridge. He looked ahead, reckoned the range at six or seven hundred. The ship was still on the port bow but he had to “lead” her and he ordered, “Starboard a point.”
“Starboard a point, sir.” Grundy’s eyes were glued to the compass, the glass in the binnacle no bigger than the top of a teacup, glowing faintly. His hands turned the spokes of the small wheel, the “coffee-grinder”. His mouth was clamped shut but in his mind he cursed steadily. She was a right cow to steer at this creeping pace; every gust of wind or thrust of wave sent her drifting off course.
Brent was crouching knees-bent beside Grundy to peer along the sight. He growled again, “Starboard... steady. Steady!” as the bow wandered too far to the right.
“Flare, sir! In the river!” That was the signalman behind him but Brent had already seen the light from the corner of his eye. He straightened, grabbing the binoculars and lifting them to his eyes.
The flare had burst high above the estuary, a brilliant pale green that was almost white, lighting up the two boats and the jetty as they closed to take off the commandos. The village at its back was just a huddle of dark buildings. Then the guns opened up, tongues of flame licking out from the darkness that was the left bank of the river. Brent listened to their rapid banging and thought: 40mm. cannons, like the Bofors gun.
The leading boat was hit at once; David saw the bursts high on her bridge. She slewed off course then stopped dead and he knew she had run out of the channel and gone aground. The second boat was turning to render assistance to the leader, but now she too came under fire, was lit by the bursts, exploded, burned. And there was fighting around the village, the pin-pricks of flames speckling the darkness there. Then the guns ceased firing and Brent heard the distant growl of engines. Three E-boats, the German counterparts of his own craft, showed in black silhouette against the glare from the burning boat. Their guns flamed, taking up the task of finishing off the two trapped in the river.
Brent lowered the binoculars and crouched to the torpedo sight once more. He rubbed shoulders with Grundy who had held to his course. They were so close as to hear each other’s breathing. Brent judged the range was now down, almost, to five hundred, but held on just a little longer — “Starboard a point” — because he still needed to lead the ship by a fraction more.
“Starboard a point, sir.” Grundy eased the wheel around.
“Steady…” Brent pulled at the triggers, first starboard then port, heard the pound of cordite in the impulse charge in each tube explode with a dull thud. The torpedoes slid out of the tubes and over the bow, plunged into the sea, dived then rose and ran. He straightened and watched their twin but diverging tracks of phosphorescence. His eye and his instinct told him the starboard one had missed; he had fired too soon, led by too much.
He glanced quickly towards the firing in the river, saw the one boat burning, the other being shot to pieces where it lay stranded. His friends were dying in the estuary. His eyes came down to the silver tracks and he stooped to the engine-room voice-pipe, “Stand by for crash start.”
“If it goes bad on us then you pull out.” That order had been given to Brent in the presence of his sub-lieutenant so no blame would be attached to him if —
Pull out. Save this boat at least. He had already come to know every man aboard and his worth. Leave any survivors from the other boats, and the soldiers, to take their chance. But what chance did they have without him?
The starboard torpedo ran past the bow of the ship but the port struck in a sheet of flame and an explosion that felt like a blow on the ears. The ship stopped dead and sagged, listed at once. Brent worked the handle of the engine-room telegraph, calling for main engines. The engineer below was waiting for that and the engines fired with a deep roar. The boat surged ahead as Brent thrust the throttle levers forward. As she swung past the bow of the stricken ship he saw she mounted a gun forward and another aft, both trained into the estuary. The other jaw of the trap.
The ship dwindled in size as they left her astern and the boat worked up to full speed, bow lifting and stern dug in. Brent ordered, “Starboard twenty… midships!” The bow swung, steadied as the boat swerved away from the course that led to the buoyed channel. So for a bare half-mile, then he worked the engine-room telegraph and the roar of the engines died, the bow of the boat dropped and she slid to a halt.
He watched, and saw what he had expected to see, had gambled on. The three E-boats had seen that flash, heard the torpedo strike and they were racing out to the aid of the stricken ship. He saw them first against the light of the flames far up the estuary, coming up the deep-water channel in line ahead. Then they emerged from it to pass him a quarter-mile away. They were not outlined on the backdrop of light now but he saw the grey plumes of their bow-waves. He could see them but they would not see him, lying still. Past him now — “Start up! Port ten!”
The boat was accelerating and swinging back towards the channel. Brent could picture how it had happened. The E-boats, lying still at the side of the estuary, had seen the M.T.B.s enter and set up the trap with a wireless signal to their base. That had brought the mobile guns tearing down to the bank of the river and the ship to the mouth of the estuary. The guns could not have been far away, the ship already close by, probably on patrol. But they had been quick, efficient — and lucky. Brent and his friends had been out-manoeuvred.
He turned to bawl to the sub-lieutenant standing aft of the bridge, “Tell the gunner to concentrate his fire on those two guns on the shore!” The sub lifted a hand in acknowledgment and Brent turned forward.
They were entering the estuary and Brent had to be able to follow the bobbing buoys that marked the channel. He eased the boat’s speed to cruising and heard above the roar of the engines the hammering of the twin Vickers machine-guns aft of the bridge. The lines of red tracer soared away towards the flashes of the two guns on the left bank of the river.
Those flashes disappeared. They had been firing again at the boat stuck helplessly aground and the other that was aflame along its length. But the sweeping tracer had stopped them. Shooting at someone was very different to being shot at and the startled German gunners had ducked as the bullets whined round them.
Brent ordered the coxswain, “Port ten.” The craft turned to conform to the channel as it bent around to close the jetty, about a half-mile away now. They were running close to the burning boat, lit by its glare and he shouted, “Look out for survivors!” But he saw none, heard no sighting report. No one could have lived through that sudden explosion as the boat’s petrol tanks ignited.
The guns on the shore flared again but the shells screamed high overhead. They ceased as Brent raced out of the lake of red light and ran down to pass the leader. She also had a fire aboard her now, aft of the bridge, but no sign of life. She was listed and down by the stern, so probably not only aground but flooded for half her length, holed where the shells from the guns had ripped into her as she lay a sitting target. And then the E-boats had raked her.
Brent saw the jetty ahead, silhouetted against a fire now burning in the village. The twin Vickers were no longer firing and he demanded the reason, watching the narrow jetty standing out of the water on its piles. It had been empty a moment ago but now four men were running out along it. They appeared from the houses of the village and they moved stiffly and jerkily as if very tired. They bent over as they ran as if afraid of moving in the light from the burning house.
The sub came to the bridge and said breathlessly, “The gunner ceased firing because he can’t see the guns on the river bank. They’re masked by the leader’s boat out t
here.”
So Brent’s boat was hidden too and would be while he lay at the jetty. He thought: Thank God for that, anyway. He told the sub, “Get down and be ready to take those men aboard.”
“— Sir!” He dropped down from the back of the bridge and Brent heard him yelling orders at the hands. He appeared forward of the bridge as Brent reached out to work throttle levers and engine-room telegraph. The boat slowed, the engines went briefly astern as he took the way off her, then he and Grundy brought her in alongside the jetty.
Men forward and aft leapt ashore with lines and made them fast. Brent stood on the bridge in the wavering yellow light as the soldiers began to climb aboard. At first they slumped on the deck but Brent bellowed at the sub, “Get ‘em below!” Then they were herded down through the hatches.
There was still firing all around the village and Brent thought: Somebody is still organising a defensive perimeter, sending his men away a few at a time. Now another group of five came trotting out from the village, trailed by one who swayed as he ran but his mouth was open as he shouted at the others, urging them on. He wore a pistol holster on his belt but he carried a rifle.
Brent judged, Officer, and called to him, “When are the rest coming?” They had to get out of this. The E-boats would return —
The young officer peered up at Brent on the bridge and answered, “I’m the last.”
Brent swallowed. Ten? Out of twenty! He shouted, “Cast off!” The two seamen stationed on the jetty by the bow and stern lines threw them aboard and jumped after them. Brent took the boat out astern then set one engine ahead, turned her almost on her axis and shoved the throttle levers forward.
He sought and found the buoys marking the channel, as the bow lifted and the boat cruised out from the protection afforded by the stranded wreck. The guns on the river bank flickered at them and the twin Vickers chattered tracer in reply. That silenced the guns for a time but then the boat ran into the huge circle of light from the burning craft. The guns found her and then she was hit. Brent and Grundy hunched down as the cannon shells screamed over or burst on the hull. The Vickers fired briefly then stopped.
